


Touch

by mm01



Series: .hxh [1]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 09:54:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17558171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mm01/pseuds/mm01
Summary: They’re six inches apart, maybe. Six inches if you squint. The kitchenette is cramped and tiny, barely bigger than the bathroom, and they press in side-by-side to wash the dishes.





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bikeaesthetic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bikeaesthetic/gifts).



> me and cat bufocrat have a continuation of canon where Gon and Killua reunite around age 17 and travel together (sometimes with Alluka, sometimes not.) Here they are tentatively finding their footing again and learning how to communicate.

Silence has a certain weight to it when you’re seventeen and in love with your best friend and he hasn’t touched you in days.

It is silence that lays itself flat against pink-papered drywall, expanding to meet the precise dimensions of your cramped motel room; silence that flattens the ash-blackened carpet to concrete beneath it; silence that vacuum seals a too-small space with paper-thin walls and not enough air and a clunky cable TV set and you, and him; two boys on opposite sides of the same room where bathroom blurs into kitchenette into bedroom into welcome rug at latchkey door into now, into _here_ , as in: here are the two boys.

Watch them.

See how they share the same used-up oxygen, recycling it, inhale-exhale in a room with four walls and a ceiling. Observe the two boys and their heavy silence. Observe their fragile fears, count them.

One: history and its great reappearance, a scratch at the backdoor. There are deep claw marks in the backdoor. They do not open this door, nor do they speak of it. The walls shrink inward.

Two: a loop. Repetition. Time closing in on itself, circling their room in an ever-narrowing path. The inevitability of the loop. The inexorable end. Fight or flight, avoidance—what to do?

Three: touch as in the absence of touch. The meaning of touch. The meaning of the absence of touch.

 

This silence smothers.

 

It crept into Alluka’s suitcase and she carried it off with her, silence hidden in the polyester folds of her pockets and the thick plastic clasps of her barrettes. Somewhere in the near-empty car of a nighttime train she sits, alert, shoulders tensed and eyes peering inward. Her mind is a whirlwind.

There is regret, for leaving; there is determination—to prove herself, namely her Independence, that uncharted ideal she explores and henceforth intends to assert; because yes—she _will_ be an equal, in every sense of the word. She will have a hunter’s license and controllable nen and a nen-master and her own lived experiences, her _own_ adventures; and anyway her brother and Gon are too much to be around right now. It hurts to admit it but they _are_. Too much.

This is where the silence creeps up her sleeve, sliding beneath her skin and gathering at the base of her throat, pushing forward into solidity: a smooth hard lump. Tangible.

She can be independent, she _will_ be independent, and she doesn't need her brother but she wants him, wants Gon; the little family she left behind in a room with  
no air.

Tears collect in the corners of her eyes and she wipes them stubbornly away.

There is nothing to do and nothing to look at so she sits on the train as still as can be and talks quietly to herself, talks to Nanika; a paradox of a girl. (A two in one deal, said Mito, who rarely jokes and is not particularly funny. But something about an introduction to weepy black eye-sockets and a blur of downturned mouth— _Miss Mito, this is Nanika!_ —inspires levity in a person. And it is a sad sweet face indeed, dynamic and emotive and neatly set against Alluka’s pale-skinned features.)

The train roars into a tunnel. Windows rattle. The bone-white pool of moon winks flatly out of view and the night sky unspools, stars plucked from velvet cloth and pocketed in the sudden walls of tunnel. It is long and dark and windy. The motion of it trembles beneath her feet like something living.

There is a destination, somewhere hours off in the near-distant future of life and of being alive. There is a person, waiting, a friend and a teacher. Bisky.

Alluka swallows the silence in her throat and feels something take root in her chest, quick and incisive. Maybe silence is a seed, says Nanika.

For a moment they feel oddly tender.

“Maybe,” Alluka whispers back. The word is a foothold. A man yawns loudly down the aisle; the train rattles onward down the track.

 

Miles away—miles and miles away—there is still the motel room. There is still Killua; there is still Gon. There is still the matter of their fear and their silence and the problem of touch, of touching and being touched.

(This is of course a misunderstanding, communication generally being their downfall.)

Generally.  
Downfall.

 

It is 11pm.

 

Gon lays supine on the queen-sized bed and thinks of nothing, nothing. Sweat beads on his forehead and breaks. A fat drop wobbles precariously at his brow, rolls slick and fast down the slope of his nose.

No thoughts in his head no thoughts.

He slides them obliquely out of focus.

The periphery is not an easy place to balance but he can manage, if this afterall is what Killua wants. Surely it must be. Mito said be considerate, Mito said think of others.

Most of his thinking occurs offstage. It manifests in action. See the thought, see how it gathers matter; particles and dust-motes and light.

It takes on a grudging, syllogistic form:

 _Your body carries out your wants & your will._  
Your best friend flinches beneath your body’s touch.  
Therefore, your body is bad is wrong.

 

Don’t listen to your body don’t think.

 

His eyes trace the contours of the ceiling and see shadow; light; a stain spilling out from a corner, brown—formless color. Mind empty. Something in his chest folds in on itself, keening, and the whole of his yearning—a thing he cannot name, a thing coiled tense at his core—is swallowed up into nothing, nothing, his mouth shapes the word of its own accord: nothing.

His hands clench and flex at his sides, feeling, reaching. His hands ball up into fists. His body moves without his permission, usually—

But then there was Killua and that look on his face, that look in his eyes. Bright and burning for one long, sustained moment; then it flattened, closed. He’d looked down and moved his arm away from Gon, away from the unwanted touch, and

It is hard work trying not to move and trying not to think so he stares at the juncture where wall meets wall meets ceiling meets floor.

 

He wiggles his fingers experimentally, holds his hand in front of his eyes.

 

This maybe feels a bit like dreaming?

 

A bad dream, definitely. A bad one for sure. He screws his eyes shut, opens them, expects to be at home in his bed with the window half-open and Mito’s footsteps falling softly down the hallway, home—without Killua, without Alluka; and better, maybe, for them?

He feels dirty. Dull streetlamp light filters soft through the shades, through his eyelids. In the room it is still and hot and dusty. Gon kicks the sheets to the foot of the bed,  
keeps kicking.

 

°°

 

_Gon is very good at letting his body carry out his wants and needs. He does not know what he wants, but he knows how he feels: he is restless, jittery. There is something tightly wound and quivering that sits in his chest when Killua looks at him like that, his eyes a little too wide and open and unguarded; only, Gon doesn't have the words for what it is. He doesn't have the language and he doesn't understand it and his body wants to move so he moves. He practices his nen tirelessly; he runs until his lungs are aching; he throws a punch at Killua and they spar, playfully, only it isn't really playful—he kicks and dodges and he loses, mostly: where once they were evenly matched Killua is now stronger, and he doesn't let Gon win, and Gon hits frantically and it's fun but it isn't fun like it used to be because there is a feeling of desperation that he notes now as new. And it isn't like a real fight with excitement and quick calculations and a clear objective because it is Killua, who is familiar, who looks different but is the same, and now Gon realizes that the goal is not to win. The goal is to purge himself of the feeling in his chest that mounts and builds and coils tight around itself and doesn't go away and even when it does, when he's exhausted himself so completely as to feel absolutely nothing, when he is laying on his back with his muscles loose and shaking, when he is staring up at the sky and feeling only the color blue—there is Killua, and there he is again hovering over him and the sun makes a halo of his soft white hair and Gon feels keenly as if he should put his hands in it, touch. Touch. His chest clenches and his hand is already reaching and Killua grabs it, pulls him up and they're standing face to face and Gon cannot name this feeling and he does not know what to do with it at all. But it's something like anticipation._

 

°°

 

It is 11pm across the room.

Crick in his neck. Killua sits fully clothed in an empty clawfoot bathtub.

Discomfort is grounding, really, a normal state of being, but this is hysteria muted; and he notes, almost dully, that his hands—bled of color, gripping the sides of the porcelain tub—are tense and numb and quivering. Ah. Well of course he ruined it of course he was stupid.

Gon won't touch him.

Gon won’t touch him and won’t sit by his side or help him up or hip-check him playfully. Gon is quiet, and brooding; his thick brows knit; his brown eyes heavy and downcast and dark, like—after Kite. Like then.

Killua swallows thickly. His face is heating up, his tongue growing very large in his throat, and he lays his cheek flat against the cool tile wall.

It is Gon, it is his best friend, and things have been so very good and they have been happy, the three of them, it has been fun and did they not understand one another? Is Gon maybe changing his mind, is he maybe regretting this, them? Is he going to leave?

He wants to narrow his eyes and say what’s wrong dumbass, cool, unbothered; only: those eyes. That heavy slanted gaze.

It is paralyzing.

And maybe this is predestined, inevitable. Maybe there will always be an obstacle, a roadblock, maybe he is not meant to be Gon’s friend.

He cannot ignore the facts of his upbringing, or of his feelings, of his loving too much when loving is not allowed, and this is maybe a character flaw / a great red spot / some inseparable quality of boy from Zoldyck; yes—he will always be what they made him.

Because he always runs, always flinches away, a needle pulled slick and bloody from the skull does not erase the years of programming and the years of conditioning, like a machine; he is a good brother he is a good friend he thinks but

No.

This is a lapse in thinking. He is beyond this, think it over. Alluka would be sad to see him moping.

Think it over.

There is a problem with Gon and this is normal. This is a normal thing, friends have fights and friends have arguments and best friends maybe have silent rifts that fill the space between them and expand, growing larger and denser like a tumor, like a growth; a big heavy thing that sucks the room of air and drives their friends away while the two of them retreat to either side of it, alone with the Thing, and they watch with quiet awe as it glides across the skyline and skirts the bleak horizon, big, bigger now, wide and expansive and

_why is there suddenly a measured distance between them, why, what changed, he doesn’t understand and that is the worst most sickening most nauseating part, you can’t fix what you don’t know what you don’t understand, why—_

Yourself and your tendencies.

Can you see the mold spores on the ceiling? The shower curtain is cloth is damp. It smells of mildew and rot. Breathe it in. Pass the night in a bathtub with your sneakers laced and the faucet leaking wet on your socks, pass the night with the great big thing growing bigger every minute like last time, like always.

 

What to do what to do?

 

Pass the night.

 

°

 

_Gon lays one hand flat on Killua’s bare shoulder and he drops off mid-boisterous sentence, tenses beneath it, ramrod stiff and quiet suddenly and distant, too distant, holding himself square and still like an animal caught in a twin-beam glare; some sad and taxidermied thing. :_

 

°°

 _Then another time, another night, leaning over the sofa cheek-to-cheek, a video game screen glowing softly before them:_ what is Killua looking at, what is Killua doing _, his face moving closer and cheek-to-warm-cheek, skin-to-skin something his body wants, lately, touch Killua touch your best friend; and it is nice, it feels nice he likes this, being close to Killua, until_ move back stupid you're too close _and a flick to his forehead and ow,_ Killua, that huuuurt! _Long playful drawn-out whine, Alluka saying_ poor Gon! Come sit with Nanika and me we’re playing candyland and Brother is mean, meeaaan; _rubbing his forehead which stings only lightly but his chest hurts a little bit, and it's kind of hard to breathe for a second, no, for a minute;_

_it is hard to breathe._

_He is seventeen years old and has ceased to seek out his father, Ging, has very carefully and very thoroughly ceased to think of him on an entirely subconscious level except at night sometimes when something—a voice he’s shut out for years and years with relentless optimism and an open-mind and a goal, a goal, always something beyond himself because I will be good enough, ‘will’ as in future tense as in not now not ever if I give up so I have to keep going, I have to and I will, something small and yes persistent—whispers: he doesn't want you he never wanted you but now—now it is different._

_His eyes were ever-trained on some far off distant thing, some future place where his life would be worth something, would matter, where Ging would acknowledge him, and until that thing materialized—that blurry blank future place—until then he would come to the brink of killing himself trying to get to there, for that was the only way and anything less was not enough._

_Time alone changed this, time on the porch with Granny and time talking to Mito and time swimming and running barefoot and studying and learning his nen again slowly, relearning the basics, meditation and mediation and back came his aura collecting around his skin, and this time it felt less like a filmy layer of power and more like an extension of himself, light and airy and reassuring and strong. There have been no bursts of sudden, explosive progress but he is not so impatient anymore, there is nowhere urgent to go, there is time now and he can look around and see what is here right beside him and_

_Killua is here, Killua was always there until suddenly he wasn't and—how to explain how to explain._

_Think, think how he said it to Mito, in that letter—_

_Killua is here by his side, now right now. This is right. This is grounding. He wants to solidify this feeling, this foundation, but he reaches out to touch he reaches out for Killua and Killua_

_pushes him away, away, and this is maybe stupid to think about his best friend but that old he becomes undefined, an amorphous vague foggy pronoun; He, as in:_

 

He doesn't want you nobody wants you.

 

°°

 

_What does he do with this yearning, where does he put it?_

 

Put it inside, put it somewhere it can't hurt Killua.

 

°°

 

They’re six inches apart, maybe. Six inches if you squint. The kitchenette is cramped and tiny, barely bigger than the bathroom, and they press in side-by-side to wash the dishes. Days and days of this ache and this silence and here they stand, shoulder-to-shoulder-thigh-to-thigh.

Only: a charged six inches of space.

Roasted fish for dinner and dishes, dishes; a Whale Island habit they haven’t erased, dishes together you-wash-I’ll-dry while Alluka sits on the counter and sings. Missing her comes all at once, her easy love and her off-key notes and the songs she sings, weird ones, infomercial ditties and white winter hymnals and jeremiah-was-a-bullfrog in one long string of syllables, one deep breath.

There’s missing her and there’s worry, too, worry that he promptly swallows and ignores because she is fourteen now, she is strong, she is perfectly capable of taking two trains and a first-class airship to Bisky’s luxury apartment. She’ll train for a month and she’ll take the exam and she will be fine, just fine.

But it was only weeks ago that she was here, with them, a different counter in a different motel room singing ABBA at the top of her lungs, and she’s only been gone two days but he hasn’t felt that good in longer; weeks ago with Alluka on the counter and suds on his cheek and Gon’s quick thumb swiping it clean and then lingering, a few seconds too long, warm dry fingers on his jaw and a hand on his shoulder, holding him steady; Alluka just singing and singing the night warm and loud the tv droning on in the background, home.

They slip into a familiar rhythm.

It is heightened now; tension fever jerky movements over-wrought swipe and don’t break the plate, keep your hand steady like that, like that. Pass Gon the plate / pass him the plate keep your fingers loose don’t break it / no not that loose / don’t drop it either /

He won’t move closer and why why why? He is inscrutable like this, he is so far away; and just recently there had been a minute shift, a quiet wordless change where they had slipped back into being themselves, gon&killua,  
two boys;  
and with this sudden change  
this sudden return, with it  
came something new and  
it was touch.

 

Hands in his hair; an arm looped in his; friendly shoulder jostling; hand held a little too long a little too tight and this was friendship, Killua knew, this was friendship with Gon—too intense, just like everything else with him; and _of course he knew not to hope and not to expect and he shut that all off and put it away and that was fine, he tried not to lean too much into Gon’s touch he tried to hold himself back so what is different_

Oh.

Maybe Gon knows.

That certain quality to Killua’s stiffness, self-imposed; not discomfort but restraint—and Gon is not very good with things like this, the subtleties of feeling, though Alluka of course noticed and teased him mercilessly, giggling as he squirmed beneath Gon’s arm, nudging him knowingly as he watched Gon’s back; but Killua was too obvious and Gon is uncomfortable and that is the problem, that is why he now will not touch him.

His hands are shaking as he washes the plate, washes the knife, now; his hands are shaking harder and he bumps Gon’s shoulder, jerks his arm quickly away,  
the hilt of it slips in his hand and  
the blade slides down his palm in one fine arc,  
a definitive motion—

Blood.

 

Blood pouring warm and fast from his hand, cascading over the dishes and the sponge and the Brillo pad.

 

He watches it swirl down the drain for one dumb moment, just watching as if detached,

a scene in a crowd or a show on tv

passive inattentive watching and then a hand encircles his wrist, firm and tight; and he feels it, a dull throbbing ache in the puckered pouring skin of his palm, a neat cut deep-but-not-too-deep he’s had worse—so much worse, he barely feels this—though it is definitely a surprise, definitely unexpected, no time to prepare himself, all of this  
quick through his mind in the second after  
that first dumb second  
and Gon yells

“Killua!”

In a raw grating shout too loud for a motel room.

Gon grabs him, grabs his hand, wraps it in a striped yellow dish towel and drags him across the room, frantic; sits them both down on the sofa.

There are hands on his face; hands on his arms; hands all over him not quite gentle but comforting still, his eyes frenzied and searching and bright, and holding his hand Gon looks over the wound, applies pressure, and slowly slowly his chest stops heaving and he settles. They are quiet for a moment, hand in hand for the first time in weeks when suddenly Gon pulls back as if burned, as if remembering.

Killua reels backwards like he’s been hit, a sharp pain in his chest, and this is it this is it but then Gon says “sorry, I’m sorry for touching Killua,” all in one quick babbling stream of words, lips quivering, and he slides his hands neatly beneath his thighs.

What.

Something stutters to a stop in Killua’s chest, kicks almost painfully. The world shifts around him, the floor beneath his feet. “Gon—what. Say that again,” and he’s bleeding, still bleeding. Anticipation makes him nauseous, churns his stomach, and—what. What.

Gon is sheepish, pink-cheeked. “I said sorry, sorry for touching Killua.” And then, quieter: “because Killua doesn’t like it.”

Physicality is instinctual—his hand shoots out and grabs Gon’s wrist, yanks him forward, his body moving faster than his mind and what, what. The wound cracks open again but they ignore it, blood slick on the both of them, and they sit for a second that stretches on and on and they stare at one another.

Killua is breathing heavily now, with exertion; his mind is racing. “Who said I didn’t like it?” he asks, breathless and hoarse. He looks at the black plastic clock on the wall over the sink, over the window. The water still running, he notes, frothing white on stacked plates, spilling over the lip of the counter and onto the floor—

The thought barely registers. He repeats himself dully, an afterthought. Who said I didn’t like it.

His back straightens. “Listen, Gon, listen. I don’t hate it,” he says, urgently, “I don’t hate it _at all_ ,” and his slippery grip moves up Gon’s forearm, tightens around his bicep.

Gon is skeptical. His gaze is conflicted, lips pressed in a line and brows knit together, but he’s open now, alert, accessible; and Killua quivers with palpable relief, teeth chattering, overwhelmed with a sudden flood of this is not like then this is not like then and maybe this will be okay, maybe they can fix it, this is not like then. God.

Gon’s eyes are slightly narrowed, considering, and he tilts forward to stare Killua in the face, searching for some inscrutable sign in the tightness of his jaw, the whites of his eyes. He looks down at his own hand, stained red with Killua’s blood, and folds it lightly over the hand still clutching his arm.

“Killua always pulls away, though.”

He sounds so soft, so sad.

Killua flushes deeply, shifts on the lumpy floral sofa. Examines the wallpaper. “It’s—it's _embarrassing_ ,” he bites out, and his ribcage expands with every breath, every word. He exhales, long and shaky; his face hot his chest hot.“Just because I don’t go around hugging you, and—and _holding your hand_ , doesn’t mean I don’t—just, you can touch me. Whatever. _Don’t_ go deciding how I feel all on your own,” he says, and his voice raises threateningly, an admonition; but Gon smiles so gloriously wide that he has to look away again. White teeth and bright eyes and freckles on his nose and Gon, Gon. His chest seizes again.

Gon his best friend.

God they are so fucking stupid.

The fear and the silence stretching on and on over something so dumb, a misunderstanding, god they are idiots; and he almost says so but Gon is sitting before him and the fear is still just melting off of him, fear and reticence like Killua’s going to take it back and reject him or something, change his mind, and yes this is stupid but it's real. There are still old hurts that sit between them, raw and unhealed.

He has never felt so embarrassed in his life, his heart constricting in his chest; never so relieved. For a sharp second he thinks _Alluka_ , and then, desperately, _thank god Alluka is not here to see this, thank god_ ; and he is mulling this over, what Alluka would say, how she would tease them; he is thinking of her fondly and flexing his numbed fingers and feeling calm, now, better; when there is a deep guttural noise beside him and Gon launches himself across the sofa, wailing.

He flings himself onto Killua in a heap, clambering onto his lap and clutching his blood-stained shirt like a lifeline, sobbing his name, Killua, Killuuaaaaa; and Killua’s head knocks back against the plaster wall with a dull thump. He sucks in a sharp breath of surprise, lifting his hands to quivering shoulders, a broad and shaking back.

Gon’s arms are too tight around his neck, clinging, his knee pressed sharp into Killua’s abdomen, and they’re sitting at a weird strained angle, his face buried in Killua’s neck; snot and tears and blood on his shirt, on his shoulder.

“Is this okay,” Gon sniffs, and his voice is muffled, tearful. He sounds like a child. He cries like a child too, unashamed, his words hitching and quivering, and Killua’s throat tightens again.

“Yes, Gon, it’s okay,” he says, voice soft. He's not used to exercising tenderness with anyone but Alluka, but Nanika, and his voice lilts up as if in question, his hands clamming up. This is maybe not the moment to get flustered over proximity, though. His hand settles between Gon’s shoulder blades, still and unsure. “It's okay.”

It’s okay. There are things they need to talk about, evidently; habits they need to address—the stress of this, of not talking, of avoiding each other, of keeping their pains and their fears private; and they healed far away from one another, apart, it was a necessary space and they slid neatly back together but they have only been back together six months. There is still doubt and they are still surveying their relationship, seeing how they fit now at seventeen.

There is time, though, they have time, and for now it is okay. They sit like this for a minute, five minutes, Gon still crying, Killua cradling him like something fragile.

Killua’s hand moves to the base of Gon’s neck, stroking his hair hesitantly, and Gon sniffles. He wipes his nose on Killua’s wet neck and goes boneless in his arms. Gon, Gon.

He loves him. Tears pool suddenly in his eyes and he hugs Gon back, hard. This is maybe something he can have. They hold each other tightly for awhile, silent; water overflowing from the sink behind them.

Then Gon climbs to his feet with a deep, shuddering breath, and crosses the floor in three quick strides. He turns off the faucet and stands barefoot in the pool of water on the floor, plunging his arms into the sink and rummaging around with purpose.

The knife glints in his right hand. Ah, this one.

He hums, contented; walks back in and stands before Killua with that look in his eyes, determination, young and familiar and so typically Gon that he zeroes in on it, on the minutiae of his expression, his tear-stained face; and he doesn't put two and two together with the knife and the eye contact, the determination, doesn't even consider it as Gon lifts the knife, says “Killua, watch!” and drags the blade slowly across his own palm.

Silence for a beat. They stare. Blood runs down his arm in rivulets.

Gon shouts, “OWWW,” cradling his hand to his chest, “It hurts! Ow, ow, ow,” and Killua jumps to his feet, batters his back with closed fists.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Killua shouts, punctuating each word with a punch. “Why did you do that, you’re _so_ stupid!”

Gon presses the the bloody dish towel to his hand, nose running, and he's crying again. He swipes the back of his forearm quick across his eyes and holds his hand out to Killua, palm up. The cut is neat and not very deep, and they're both going to need stitches but—

“We’re the same now,” Gon says, firmly. “I wanted to know what Killua was feeling.”

Bright eyes, bright eyes and nothing but blood in the room.

“Idiot,” Killua says. He swallows, hard, forces his gaze away from Gon’s hand. “I’ll tell you. I will, I will.”

Gon is tense, his eyes wet and earnest, and he moves closer, looking up at him, says “Killua.”

He’s shining, his eyes are shining. Killua can't speak.

Gon begins slowly, deliberately, with resolve: “I’m not very good with words, but—I want to know what Killua is feeling. I don't want to hurt Killua again.”

Again. _I don't want to hurt you either,_ he thinks, but he can't get the words out.

This is when a sob bursts forth from his chest.

This is when Gon holds him, wraps his arms around him tightly, “Is this okay, Killua—”

It’s okay.

•

 

“We’re gonna have matching scars,” Gon says amiably, far too pleased with himself. He holds his hand palm-up next to Killua’s, admiring the tiny black rows of stitches.

Killua elbows him, hard. “No one told you to cut your hand open,” he says, and Gon lays his head down on his shoulder.

“It made Killua happy, though. I know it did,” he says easily. “You were so happy you even cried—ow, Killua.”

“Shut up.”

Gon stares out the window. “Proctors, huh. Killua has a plan, right?”

Killua grins. “I have a plan, just trust me.” He reels back, looks at Gon. “Did you ever end up meeting Pariston?”

“Hmm. No, I haven't. I went to the world tree to see Ging and then straight home after.”

“Oh man, this guy's a fucking freak, Gon. He has these dead fish-eyes and this—this weird, perfect hair. He's immaculate. So fucking weird.”

Gon hums. “Killua, how long until we get there?”

“An hour. Two hours maybe. Go to sleep if you want.”

“Is it okay?”

“It's all okay, I told you already. I'll tell you if it isn't. Stop asking.”

Gon tucks his head into Killua’s neck, sleeps. Killua leans onto him and thinks about the future. Proctors. The train runs quick through a tunnel.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry I wrote this after reading a lot of anne Carson. I <3 drama and fanfare. If u got this far I respect u. 
> 
>  
> 
> Im strawberryblondhourz on Tumblr


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